


fever dreams

by catarinquar



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Depression, F/M, Post-Movie: The X-Files: I Want To Believe (2008), Pre-Episode: s10e01 My Struggle, Pre-X-Files Revival, Sickfic, they're married and she left him and sometimes he's resentful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 14:18:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16265951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catarinquar/pseuds/catarinquar
Summary: It seems crueler like this, knowing that he will wake up at some point and it will all have been his imagination. There’s a sense of order when he opens his eyes again, though. Scully, the only antidote for his entropy, must have been here after all.-pre-revival. mulder is sick and needs scully even if she was the one who left him.





	fever dreams

**Author's Note:**

> in answer to a prompt from anon on tumblr (married msr but during the separation period. Either Mulder or Scully gets sick and thinks they're dying and calls the other for one last time.)

At least he did the laundry yesterday.

He’d planned to do the dishes, but with the mountains of stained plates, glasses and mugs piled up in a kitchen smelling like sour milk and burnt toast… it just didn’t happen. Doesn’t matter that they’ve - that _he’s_ got a dishwasher. Picking up dirty socks and crumpled sweaters around the house, a little here and a little there, it seemed a better alternative, then. Easier.

More rewarding, as it happens. He has no use for plates with his appetite completely gone today, but at least he can be thankful for enough clean underwear to last him through a week of the flu.

Or whatever it is; his doctor - his _wife,_ in sickness and in health - isn’t here to diagnose him and it’s not like he’s been in much contact with anyone lately. There was that kid delivering groceries four, five days ago. It’s Tuesday, so it must be five.

He thinks Scully took his trusted Navajo blanket with her when he left, so he makes do with a stack of her stylish grey quilts instead and burrows into the sofa. That’s the same, at least. However hard she tried to redecorate their house free of the misery infesting it, the old leather couch was always allowed to stay in his office. He’d thought, maybe hoped, that even she couldn’t part with those memories, but then she just stopped coming into the room altogether.

He watches the snow drift past the window outside while the sky turns grey then black, and it makes him feel colder.

-

They’ve got him immobilised in the dark again, with something pressing on his chest. There’s no air, no air, and he must be on fire. They never used to set him on fire -

Then he’s caught in a tangle of sweat-soaked blankets, too hot, coughing and coughing. He is sure he’s going to throw up, but by the time he reaches the kitchen sink, all he manages are dry heaves and spittle.

Even back in the safety of his blanket nest, he can’t stop shaking; can’t seem to breathe right. They must have put something - in his food, in the delivered groceries, maybe - and they will come for him now that he’s vulnerable, take him back to that place. Or if he’s _lucky_ they’ll just wait for him to die on his own - but he can’t - he has to -

“‘s Dana Scully.”

No, that’s not what she’s supposed to say. He throws the phone to the other end of the couch. He didn’t mean -

“Hello?” he can hear her ask. So far away, tired, annoyed. He’s inconvenienced her, ruined her sleep. Just because he’s a mess shouldn’t mean she has to be; that’s why she left. “Mulder? Is that you?”

He leans closer and puts the phone on speaker. It will be better with another voice in the empty house, he thinks, even if it’s her. Or especially if it’s her; they could never do him anything when it was her. “It’s me.”

“Why are you calling? It’s - past midnight, is something wrong?”

He could give her a whole list. _Me, me, me, me. I’m wrong._ “I’m not. I’m not feeling so good. Scully. Can’t breathe right.”

“Yeah, I can hear that,” and she’s much softer then. Worried; that’s - confirming. Comforting. “Mulder, you need to take a deep breath, can you do that?” he shakes his head and continues with the rapid superficial ones instead. To make it all worse, his nose is stuffy. “I need you take one deep breath while I count to five, and then you exhale while I count to five again.”

That’s sound advice from a medical doctor. But at least she cares about him. “Uh-huh.”

“That’s good. One, two, three,” she starts counting, _four, five. One, two, three, four, five_. At some point, she stops counting and just breathes with him. At some point, she must decide he’s doing alright again, because she tells him, “Mulder, I want you to lie down and get some sleep now, okay?”

He hadn’t expected her to come out here in this weather; hadn’t meant to call her in the first place. But maybe he’d hoped.

-

The fever dreams come back, but this time it’s Scully drifting through the house. The floorboards creak, the water runs for a while, and she touches him at least once. She smells like she used to, same perfume, same shampoo. Scully. It seems safer but crueler like this, knowing that he will wake up at some point and it will all have been his imagination.

There’s a sense of order in the house when he opens his eyes again, so Scully, the only antidote for his entropy, must have been here after all. He shuffles to the kitchen and finds it clean and well-aired. There’s a stack of paper plates on the table, fresh groceries in the fridge.

His phone is on the kitchen table, blinking with a message. He sits down but takes a few minutes on deciding whether to listen.

“Hi,” she says. Soft, quiet. She must have been sitting here while he still slept. “I cleaned up a bit for you. I’ve left some food in your fridge and - and portioned lasagna in your freezer.”

There’s a pause after that, and he considers _your fridge, your freezer;_ she doesn’t live here anymore, of course.

“The paper plates - you know, I thought it might be easier, not having to clean up so much, uh… but you can’t rely on that for too long, Mulder, it’s just until you’re not - until you’re not sick anymore. I really, really need you to talk to someone, to - see someone,” she sniffles. “For therapy, I mean. I’m… I have been going, for a while, and it’s helping, Mulder. It really is. I, uh… I can put you in touch with someone if you need me to.”

She’s got it all wrong, he thinks. He doesn’t need her to get someone else to help him, he just needs _her_.

“Just - give me a call when you start feeling a little better again.” They never used to say goodbye.

It takes him nine days and the whole stack of paper plates, but then he does text her. _Please put me in touch with someone._

**Author's Note:**

> say hi on [tumblr](https://catarinquar.tumblr.com)!


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